The Last Day
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: [ONESHOT] A brief selection of Sherlock's school memories, accompanied by the heartbreaking truth that you only really miss things when they're gone. Is he more normal than he likes to think?


Sherlock Holmes didn't want it to be the last day.

He hated school, he'd always hated school, and everyone who knew him could see that plainly on that ever-serious face, those daydreaming eyes that were always everywhere but the real world. Up until now he had thought he wanted to leave. Indeed, he had looked forward to today, the day when he would walk out of the school gate and never look back.

But now, when he awoke to glorious July sunshine streaming through the window, and looked around to see those with whom he shared his dormitory and a love-hate relationship, and saw at the end of his bed the smart clothes he'd left out for the end-of-year meeting, he felt a pang of regret, a sense of loss already, and didn't know quite why.

* * *

He remembered leaving prep school – another school he hadn't liked, and at which he hadn't made any friends, although he had gained a certain amount of respect through his ability to make deductions about anything and everything. Leaving there hadn't been too hard. After all, most of the people from his year had moved up to the same school as him. Of course, a lot of his peers would be at Oxford with him – it was that sort of school. But they would be in different colleges, different disciplines –

Why should he miss people, though? It wasn't as if he particularly liked anybody. There were some people he hated with a passion, and he would be glad to leave them behind. And the rest of his year were a mediocre bunch...

* * *

Mycroft hadn't liked leaving school. He had had friends – well, associates. He hadn't got on too badly with a few boys in his year, and at any rate, he, like Sherlock, found it difficult to make new acquaintances, and so having to start from scratch didn't appeal to him. And Mycroft had quite enjoyed school – he had been on the school council, and he had edited the school magazine, and he had been the teachers' pet – and, at last, he had been crowned as Head Boy, and given a shiny badge that he wore even at home just to show off. At the presentation meeting on his last day the headmaster had greatly complimented his contribution to school life, and his choice to study history and politics at Oxford. It had been plain that everyone thought that Mycroft would be no less than the Prime Minister one day. In a sense, he had fulfilled that prophecy, in his own special Mycroft way.

* * *

When Mycroft left school he also left a bit of a legacy – a hope that Sherlock would rise to fill his place. He never quite made it. He was too shy to be on the council, he didn't concentrate enough in class, he was hardly a suitable choice for Head Boy – that honour had gone to an intelligent, sensible boy called James Farrell whom Sherlock respected, if not liked. Though his parents and teachers were a little disappointed, Sherlock was, in truth, rather glad that he hadn't had this burden of duty heaped on him. He liked being in the background, allowed to do his own thing. Which, in truth, was why the whole idea of school had never really appealed to him. And the reason why he now found himself wondering why he didn't want to leave.

* * *

His favourite lesson had always been Chemistry. That was partly why he had decided to do it for his degree subject. In other lessons he was forced to follow the syllabus, and didn't particularly like any of the teachers. His Chemistry master, however, was a kindly old fellow who recognised that Sherlock could still excel if he worked in his own special way, and gave him access to the laboratory in the evenings, as long as he didn't mess anything up. If he had realised what discoveries Sherlock had made!... and what bizarre items he had borrowed from the Biology lab in the course of these experiments – he had cleaned them up afterwards, leaving not a trace of his unusual investigations that he hoped would one day come in useful.

* * *

He had never felt so happy as when he attended orchestra rehearsals every week. He was the only one guaranteed to turn up, never making excuses – he had even come when he was supposed to be ill, skipping lessons but not wanting to miss orchestra. He played first violin, and was, in terms of orchestral hierarchy, second only to the music master, who was the conductor. The music master also recognised Sherlock's remarkable ability, and had more than once suggested that he ought to study music at university. The idea had tempted Sherlock – so much so that he sometimes wished he had followed this advice. But in rehearsals he truly lost himself in the music, finding that he loved it more than anything, asking if he could play his favourite pieces and getting his wishes granted. He never played solos – he knew he suffered from stage-fright and wanted to avoid it at all costs – but he always felt a burst of pride at the concerts that were put on, and the teachers watching wondered why he didn't put so much effort in elsewhere.

* * *

The library was a curious place, and one that Sherlock had a particular fondness for. In the evenings, before everyone crowded into the room for prep, he would curl up on the seats or by the radiators with a book or with a piece of prep that needed to be done, or just sit there and think, dwelling on anything that came into his mind, making new deductions, living in his own little world – constructing his mind palace, laying the foundations for the grand edifice that would come in time. Most of it looked quite a lot like the library, which was unsurprising. He loved the library: it was the only place he could guarantee he would find few or no people in at most times of day. He would miss the library. Perhaps that was the source of this mysterious heartache – no, he wouldn't miss the library _that_ much. What was it, then?...

* * *

'Sherlock! Sherlock, over here.'

Sherlock walked over to where his parents and brother were standing, studying them with mild interest. He noticed that Mycroft had lost some weight recently – he appeared to have taken up jogging, or something similar. He was still a little corpulent, though, and had evidently been optimistic with regards to his clothing sizes, as his suit didn't quite fit him. He noticed that his parents had come up by train and probably walked up to the school, and deduced that his mother would probably miss the school more than he would, judging by the look she cast around the grounds, which were really quite beautiful today. His father had bought a new suit for the occasion – he wasn't a suit person, and so looked a little ridiculous, but that was beside the point: there was a dress-code for this sort of occasion. He had visited his hairdresser recently – possibly the previous day. Normally Sherlock would have voiced these deductions, but he was lost in thought and so didn't get much further than greeting his family members.

'Mycroft's come over specially to see you; isn't that nice of him?' his mother was saying.

'What? Oh, yes, very nice... Thank you, Mycroft...' Sherlock flashed a non-genuine smile towards his brother, and Mycroft gave him a half-scowl back. But neither wanted to argue: today would be remembered, and both had decided that they would make sure it was remembered only for the right reasons.

'He must have had a job getting off work. They keep him busy at his place,' his mother continued.

 _Liar_ , Sherlock mouthed so that only Mycroft could see him. Mycroft smiled slightly. Sherlock knew full well that despite his brother's responsibility he rarely had to do anything himself, and had even until yesterday spent most of his time sitting down. Except when he went jogging, of course. An image of Mycroft in a tracksuit came into Sherlock's head and he forced himself not to laugh.

'I think we're going to the hall, Mummy –' Mycroft had noticed that the crowd on the lawn was gravitating towards the main door, and so the group followed everyone else. Sherlock's parents and Mycroft found seats, and Sherlock went to his own seat, his glance flicking occasionally towards his family. Their conversation had been stilted, it was true – but it was almost relieving not to have argued with any of them thus far today. Everyone was keeping the atmosphere composed today – his last day – the most perfect day, perhaps, that he had ever had at school. (Except perhaps that day he had got his own back on a boy who bullied him by leaving a few half-dissected frogs in his bed – the resulting scream had been the talk of the school for days afterwards, and best of all, nobody had suspected Sherlock.) The weather was marvellous and even his brother was being nice to him.

The meeting opened with speeches – the sorts of speeches that try to glorify the school but in reality make everyone fall asleep. This was followed by the presentations of prizes, and also gifts for the leaving boys. When Sherlock came up to receive his Chemistry prize – he was quite proud to have won that, even if it might have been slightly due to favouritism – he felt rather embarrassed, and didn't know quite what to do with his face whilst everyone applauded him; he decided just to give a brief handshake (he didn't really do physical contact), take his prize and hurry from the stage, feeling everyone's eyes following him. And then came the part he had been dreading – when each member of his year stood at the front and the headmaster said something about them. He remembered Mycroft's glowing report, the rapturous applause that had greeted the Head Boy himself. James Farrell got a round of applause, of course – he was well-liked and would be missed by all. Sherlock sat nervously, waiting for his name to be called out, wondering what would be said about him – he almost wanted something horrid to be said about him, to stifle this inexplicable feeling of not wanting to leave. What sort of impression did he leave on people? He liked to think he hadn't been noticed – that his impact, if he had had one, had never really been connected to his name. That was how he liked to be – the backstage man, seeking to develop his own knowledge but not really caring about how he was seen from the outside.

Up until now.

He never understood why they didn't let the students hear what would be said beforehand. Right now he was shaking like a leaf, worrying, hoping that he wouldn't show himself up on stage –

'Sherlock Holmes.'

He stood before the audience, watching them, spotting his parents and Mycroft. His parents were misty-eyed. Trying not to cry. They were soft like that. Perhaps they couldn't believe that little Sherlock had got here: six feet tall now, having grown rather a lot in but a few years; at the end of school – at the same position as Mycroft seven years ago, and yet he seemed so much smaller and more vulnerable than his Head Boy brother. Mycroft wore a polite smile, evidently bored, but with a spark in his eyes suggesting that he felt something, watching his brother reach such a stage in his life.

'Sherlock is a curious individual, always seeking to build up his knowledge base in his chosen fields of interest. He has shown a particular talent in Chemistry and Music. He will be missed for his witty comments and deductions...'

Good-natured chuckles and brief whispers accompanied this. Sherlock allowed himself a glance towards his peers; they were smiling at him – actually smiling at him. They had appreciated his deductions more than they had ever expressed; they considered Sherlock a loveable eccentric, and had always been a little disappointed that he had never tried to make friends with anyone.

'He hopes to study Chemistry at Oxford University next year.'

It was over. He received his gift, and retreated back to his place, his face reddening. James Farrell, who was a few places along, gave him a warm smile; he found himself smiling back. James was, admittedly, the nearest he had ever had to a friend. Polite, kind, friendly – very normal, of course, but nice enough. He wondered why they never had been friends. He wondered whether they could have been, if he had just made the effort...

Sherlock almost never cried. He hadn't really cried since Redbeard had died, and even then he had been tearless on finding the old dog almost sleeping in his bed, he had kept a blank face as they buried him in the garden; it had been only when he had gone to snuggle up to him and found him absent that the tears had begun to flow. But now he felt his eyes sting, a lump came to his throat – no, don't let him cry in front of his class, don't let him cry, not now – why was he even crying? God, that was embarrassing –

Everyone was in tears by the end of the meeting, of course. Nobody else wanted to leave – they had all formed happy memories at school, and didn't want to move on. Yet Sherlock, with his outstanding brain, still hadn't managed to place what it was that made him feel this way.

* * *

It was only that evening that he realised that he felt regret more than anything else. Regret for never having made friends. Regret for having hidden his genius away and never really allowed himself to shine. Regret that he hadn't made the most of his time at school...

He would get another shot at it at university. And if that failed, work and life in general. One day he would manage to show everyone that he wasn't just an eccentric who spent most of his time in the library. One day he might even find himself a friend, because even though he said he didn't need friends he most definitely did...


End file.
